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THE Vale of Mowbray is one of the many beautiful pieces of landscape scenery with which the county of Yorkshire abounds; a favourite sketching-ground for artists, and often seen, in detached portions, on the walls of the Royal Academy. An equal favourite, also, is it with the tourist and worshippers of natural beauty. If Dr. Syntax, when he mounted Grizzle to go in search of the picturesque, had come to the Vale of Mowbray, we may fancy that he would have considered his quest at an end, and his purpose accomplished.

In the Saxon era it presented a somewhat different aspect from what it does now; more strikingly magnificent and grand in its wild, natural beauty. Instead of cornfields, pastures, hedgerows, churches, mills, and mansions, it was one expanse of forest, with towering oaks, elms, and poplars; and, beneath a tangled undergrowth of brushwood and briar, the home and haunts of the antlered stag, the wild boar, the wolf, and innumerable other wild creatures, four-footed, on the sward below, or pinion-borne amid the foliage above. It must not be supposed, however, that the vale was given up entirely to these denizens of woodland, and destitute of human inhabitants. The Lord of the valley was Earl Oswald, a Saxon, or, to speak more accurately, an Anglian nobleman—the greatest landed proprietor for many miles round. His mansion was seated on a gentle slope of the Hambleton Hills; a one-storied edifice, consisting of a large hall, where he, his retainers, and domestic servants, partook of their meals, and where the latter slept by night, on straw or rushes spread on the floor, with some smaller family sleeping and guest rooms, a kitchen, brewhouse, and other necessary appliances of a nobleman's household, including a chapel with open, round-headed doorway, draped with a pair of woollen portieres, generally looped back, and displaying in the interior some roughly carpentered benches, and a lamp pendant from the roof.

Around the mansion was some arable land, with granaries and stacks; pasture land for horses, oxen, and sheep, protected by stockades from the incursions of wolves and other beasts of prey; an orchard and a vegetable garden. Scattered about in clearings of the forest were the homesteads of the class correspondent with the modern tenant-farmer, with their oxen, swine, wains, and rude implements of husbandry; and, nestling around the mansion, an aggregation of wattled and mud-built dwellings, the abodes of the villeins or serfs, hence denominated a village, in the centre of which stood the church, a very primitive structure of wood, consisting of nave and chancel only, without side aisles, transept, or tower.

Earl Oswald was a young man of five-and-twenty years, comely in aspect and benign in manner; and was a considerate overlord and kind master. He had not long been in possession of his estates, his father having died only twelve months previously, his death having been occasioned by an accident when pursuing the wild boar in the forest. The present Earl was the last of his race, having no brothers or other relatives to inherit the earldom, which would become extinct in case of his death without issue; consequently it behoved him, in order to continue the succession, to look out for a wife. But at that time the choice was very limited; it was essential that he should marry a lady with some pretensions to aristocratic birth, in order to keep up the dignity of his family; and as people, even nobles, did not then travel far away from home, visiting only such families as resided within a moderate distance, his choice was rather restricted. It happened, however, that one day, when hunting in Cleveland, he met with a Thegn, one of the lower order of nobility, who invited him to his house to spend the night, as he was some distance from home. At supper he was introduced to the Thegn's daughter, Gytha, a beautiful young maiden, some three or four years younger than himself, and was so charmed with her beauty, amiability of deportment, and sensible conversation, that he became enamoured of her, and mentally resolved that if there were no obstacles in the way he would make her his countess and the mother of his heir. He made no declaration on that occasion, but finding the hunting round the bases of the great Cleveland hill, the Ottenberg, now called Roseberry Topping, fruitful of sport, he came again and again, seldom letting a week pass without one or two visits, and never failing to call at the Thegn's house, where he was always cordially welcomed by Gytha and her father. The friendship thus commenced soon ripened into intimacy, and when the Earl found that his attentions had made an impression on the heart of the fair maiden, he began to whisper in her ear the tale of love. As maidens, in those practical, unsophisticated days, knew not the art of coquetry, and were not apt at disguising the feelings of their hearts, Gytha listened with pleasure to his flattering tale, confessed at once that she reciprocated his love, and without any needless circumlocution or affected bashfulness consented to become his wife, which met with the full approbation of her father, and a month afterwards he bore her away to become the mistress of the mansion in the Mowbray Vale, and, it was hoped, the mother of the future lord of the domain.

Months past along—delicious months—one succession of honeymoons; the happy pair never tiring of each other's company. In the mornings the Earl would go forth to superintend the operations of ploughing, sowing, or harvesting, or to look after the careful tending of his flocks and herds; and occasionally, for pastime or for the benefit of the larder, would penetrate the recesses of the forest, hunting-spear in hand, and surrounded by his hounds; whilst the Lady Gytha directed the domestic affairs of the house, or occupied herself in her bower, with her handmaidens, embroidering a set of arras for the adornment of the hall; but they always spent the after-part of the day together in caressing converse.

The months thus passed along, and began to resolve themselves into years, but still the great hope of their lives was not accomplished, that of giving an heir to carry downwards the honours and possessions of the family. For a long time they flattered themselves with this hope, despite the length of time that had elapsed since their marriage; but when three or four years had gone into the past without any fruition of their hopes, they began to despond. The Earl became moody and melancholy in contemplating the probable and almost certain extinction of his race; and his lady wept and mourned in secret, at the bitter disappointment her husband experienced, no less than at the denial to herself of the delights and pleasant anxieties of maternity.

Another year or two, with their wintry storms and summer sunshine, went by, and the Earl had sunk into the depths of despair, when, after all hope had departed, a gleam of sunshine shot athwart "the winter of his discontent," heralding the coming of a glorious summer. The probable birth of a living child, and, it might be, heir, was announced to him, and he immediately became a changed man; from the slough of despondency he sprang up, radiant with expectancy, buoyant in spirit, and gladdened at heart; and the Lady Gytha underwent an equal change, from tears and brooding to the delicious anticipation of fondling on her breast and presenting to her husband, as the outcome of their loves, an heir to his lands and dignities.

It was a proud day for Earl Oswald when the women of his household brought him news of the birth of a male child, healthy and well-formed, with promise of developing into vigorous life, indeed, in the nurse's opinion, it was one of the most wonderful infants that ever came into the world, and he was further gratified to learn that the mother was doing well, whom he waited upon as soon as the feminine portion of the community, who ruled supreme at this interesting crisis, permitted, to congratulate her on the auspicious event. Nor did he confine himself to mere gratulations and expressions of rejoicing; in demonstration of his gratitude to Heaven for his long-hoped-for heir, every day, for the succeeding week, he sat at the entrance door of his mansion and administered, with bountiful hand, food and stycas to all mendicant wayfarers, dispensed gifts to his servitors and slaves, and bestowed liberal donations on the Church and the monastic fraternities, with a stipulation in the latter case that they should pray for the welfare of the newly-born Christian child.

The infant throve apace, and waxed more beautiful every day, with his blue Saxon eyes and fair flaxen hair, the darling of his mother, the cherished hope of his father, and the petted plaything of all the household. He had attained the mature age of twelve months, when a terrible calamity befel the family, a calamity, however, which was common enough in those days of turbulence, bloodshed, and war. It was the time when the Danish Vikings were most active in making landings on the British coasts, ravaging the country, and massacring the people who opposed them, and then sailing homeward with the spoils of the plundered villages and monasteries. Northumbria lay especially open to their incursions; Ravenspurn, Flamborough, and Lindisfarne, were their principal landing places, and the Humber, the Tees, and the Tyne, their high roads into the interior. They had, indeed, established a permanent encampment on the headland of Flamborough, and intrenched themselves by enlarging a natural ravine, deepening it, and throwing up earthworks, so as to constitute it a formidable defensive barrier stretching across the peninsula, which still exists, and is popularly known as "Danes' Dyke."

News reached Earl Oswald that a large fleet of vessels had arrived at Flamborough, and that the Danes, in great numbers, were marching with sword and firebrand across the Wolds, and in the direction of his home. The news was sent by the leading men of the district, who were gathering their vassals and slaves together to resist the invaders, and he was requested to come to their assistance with all the men he could muster. He lost no time in obeying the call, and after bidding an affectionate farewell to his wife, and exhorting her to great watchfulness and care over little Oswy, who, said he, is the only hope for the continuance of my race in case of any mischance to myself—he went forth at the head of his retainers, and joined the army, which had assembled in the neighbourhood of Driffield, to check the progress of the enemy.

About a couple of miles to the north-east of Driffield, there was a valley running east and west, along which it was anticipated the foe would come, and here the Saxons decided to await their approach. They took up their position on the southern slopes, and threw up some rough earthworks to protect their front, and, after lying there a couple of days, their scouts brought intelligence that the Danes were but a mile distant, and that in their track could be seen the flames of villages which they had fired in their march. Presently they made their appearance; a vast host of fierce-looking warriors, who, on perceiving the Saxons, set up a wild barbarian shout, and clashed their weapons together as if eager for the conflict. The Saxons uttered a shout of defiance in response, but remained quietly behind their intrenchments, whilst the Danes rushed forward impetuously, and clambering up the slope, the battle began. The field was obstinately contested on both sides, the fight lasting the entire day, neither gaining any absolute advantage, the bravery being equal on both sides, and what the Saxons lacked in numbers was made up by the superiority of their position, and the shelter afforded by their earthworks. Great numbers of brave men fell on both sides, the Danes, from their exposed position, losing more than their antagonists, and when the darkness of night fell, separating the combatants, they deemed it expedient to retreat upon Flamborough.

The following day the Saxons went over the field to succour the wounded and bury the dead. Among the former was found Earl Oswald, who was taken in charge by his retainers and conveyed to his home; and the latter were buried, Saxon and Dane together, and tumuli raised over their bodies. Their grave-mounds may still be seen spread over two or three acres of ground, over-canopied by trees, and are popularly known by the name of "Danes' Graves," and the valley where the battle was fought still bears the name of "Danes' Dale."

A speedy messenger was sent to inform Lady Gytha of what had befallen her husband, and it was with anguished heart that she received the mournful cavalcade which carried him, wounded and almost insensible, to his home. He lived two or three days, but in the end, despite the most skilful of leechery and the most assiduous nursing, he succumbed to the loss of blood he had sustained during the night he lay on the field. In his dying moments he again besought his wife to protect and bring up in godly fashion his infant heir; and she, with heartbroken sobbing, entreated him to have no apprehensions on that head, as now she would have nothing to live for but that one sole purpose. And the Earl closed his eyes in death, and was buried in the little wooden church hard by, which had been built by his grandfather—buried with all the pomp befitting his rank; and the Lady Gytha returned to her mansion to grieve over her loss, devote herself to the instruction of her beloved child, and look after the interests of his estates.

It chanced one day that the widowed lady and her orphan child were disporting themselves on the grass-plot in front of the house, when a withered old crone came up and implored charity. The Lady Gytha, who was ever beneficent to the poor, sent into the house for some victuals, which she gave to the old woman, bidding her sit under the shade of a tree and eat thereof, condoled with her under her infirmities, and supplemented her gift of food with a few coins. Whilst she was conversing with the woman, the little Oswy was running about after some ducks, and, chasing them to the edge of a pond, fell in, but was immediately rescued. At the same moment a dog that was chained up near by gave two prolonged howls, which attracted the attention of the stranger, who, after musing awhile, said, "Lady! you have been very kind in your largesses to me, whom you know not, and I can only repay you by a warning, which I pray you to take heed of. I am an old woman, and have lived long in this world, not without learning somewhat that is hidden to others. I have studied omens and forebodings, and have acquired the power of predicting the future from signs of the present. Know then, lady, that I can foresee from the mishap of your little son, and the language of the dog, that he will undergo great peril from water, and that this will happen, unless prevented by fit precaution, in his second year, as is indicated by the two howls of the dog;" and, having said this, she hobbled off, leaning on her walking-staff, without leaving time for reply.

Lady Gytha, although she did not place much credence in the prediction of the old woman, was imbued, to some extent, with the superstitions and credulities of the age, and she summoned into her presence an astrologer, requesting him to cast the nativity of the child. He noted down the time and particulars of his birth, and promised a reply within the week. After a few days' absence he returned, and appeared before Lady Gytha with a clouded brow, she receiving him with a tremor of anxiety. "What do the stars reveal?" enquired she. "Are the tidings good or evil?" "Lady," replied he, "I have calculated the star of his nativity, and sorry am I to tell that it augurs evil rather than good. A great peril awaits the child, on the fourth day of the third moon after his second birthday. It is recorded in the starry volume that on that occasion he will perish by drowning."

"Oh, say not so, wise sir. It would kill me as well. Are you assured that this fate is inevitable?"

"Fate, lady, is inevitable; but there is one planet which presents a disturbing element in his horoscope, and it is possible that this fate may have been miscalculated, and that, through the influence of the planet, the threatening may be averted; and it will become you that, at the date indicated, you should take all possible precaution, in order that he should not be brought into the neighbourhood of water of any kind."

The astrologer, having been rewarded generously for his services, and assured that all due precautions should be taken, he departed, murmuring to himself, "Fate is fate, and it cannot be averted."

The Lady Gytha's whole existence was now absorbed in that of her child. He was scarcely ever out of her reach and sight, she watched over him with more than maternal care, if that were possible, and he continued to blossom out, with the promise of becoming everything she could wish—her support, her comfort, and the pride of her after-life. But these prospects of the future were overshadowed by a cloud—an anxious foreboding of what might happen on the fourth day of the third moon of his second year, which the stars marked with a doubtful and perhaps fatal prognostic. Could he but pass that dangerous point of life, the lowering cloud would dissolve into thin air, and for the future might be anticipated the glad sunshine of existence.

The fatal day came nearer and nearer. He had passed his second birthday, and the mother had meditated often and often on the means whereby he should be delivered from the threatening evil. It was plainly revealed to her that the danger arose from water, and she reasoned that if she could place him out of the neighbourhood of river, pools, or springs, the evil might be turned aside and the augury baffled. When thinking the matter over, there suddenly rose up before her mind's eye the steep slopes of Ottenberg, the Cleveland hill, about which she had often clambered and gambolled when a child, and it struck her that if she could convey young Oswy to the summit, he would be removed so far away from any running or standing stream, or pool of water, that there could be no possibility of the fulfilment of the prediction, and she resolved upon taking him thither.

Accordingly she proceeded to her father's house at its base, and on the summer's night preceding the fateful day, clomb the side of the hill with her child in her arms. She arrived at the summit as the sun was rising from the sea on the eastern horizon, and lighting up the glorious panorama visible from that elevated position. She partook of some refreshment which she had brought with her, and, although she felt no fatigue in making the ascent, owing to her anxiety, now that she had reached what she deemed a place of security, nature began to give way, and a sense of exhaustion to oppress her. She sat there, with her child clasped in her arms, as the sun rose higher in the heavens, and darted forth its heated rays upon her unsheltered head. Under its influence she began to feel drowsy, but battled with the feeling, determined not to lose her hold of the child until the day had passed. At length, however, she unconsciously and insensibly succumbed, and fell asleep, sinking on the turf and relaxing her grasp. The young Oswy disengaged himself, and wandered away, plucking the wild flowers, and looking with infant delight at the gulls winging their flight over the sea.

An hour or two elapsed, and the Lady Gytha awoke. At first she could scarcely understand where she was, but in a few minutes she came to full consciousness, and was startled to find that her child was not with her. She sprang up, called him by name, but elicited no response, and she feared he had fallen down the side of the hill. With beating heart she sought around, and on turning a projecting shoulder of the hill was agonised to perceive the object of her search lying with his face in a stream of water that was issuing from a fissure, and, on taking him up, found life to be extinct. The pen fails in attempting to depict her frantic grief, but it may be briefly stated, that she carried down the lifeless body, conveyed it to her home, and laid it beside its father in the little timber church. For her there was no further earthly joy, and fixing her thoughts on the only source of consolation, she founded a small religious house in the Vale of Mowbray, where she spent the few remaining years of her life in religious meditation and devotional exercises. She was buried beside her beloved child in the little church, around which a village grew up, which was called, in remembrance of the burial-place of Oswy and his mother—Osmotherley.

According to the legend, the spring at the summit of the hill gushed forth miraculously, in order that the decree of Fate should not be frustrated.

"On the proud steep of Ottenberg still may be found

The spring which rose his sad doom to complete;

And on its verge the villagers sit round,

In wonder recording the fiat of Fate."